Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour’d grave! The grave!—oh, say
Rather the shrine!—an altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things, where every weed
Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now what strain
Making victorious melody ascend